I peeled myself out of bed early on Thursday (the 2nd of September) and got myself down to the shuttle bus for a 45-minute ride to the ferry dock. From there, it was onto the ferry for another 45-minute crossing to Inis Mor, the largest of the three Aran Islands.
I debated getting on a minibus for a tour, but eventually pride and adventure won out, and I rented a bike instead. In retrospect, this was rather stupid. I haven't ridden a bike in at least two years, and I've never been very good at it. But I couldn't stomach the idea of being squished into a minibus and just staring out the window for three hours, and the lady at the TI said I could probably handle it, so off I went.
After a stop at a Spar for a picnic, I set off in earnest. It quickly became apparent, in the form of a series of gentle uphills, that I was not well-prepared for what I'd gotten myself into. I was soon getting quite tired, but I pushed on, and only had to walk my bike once. Finally, I came to the turn-off for the steep track leading up to my first destination, the lighthouse, so I left my bike there and continued on foot.
A short but intense hike later, I was standing at the highest point of the island. The sun was shining in a watery sort of way through the screen of swiftly-blown clouds high above. This might explain part of why the landscape looked so washed out. The bleak hills went rolling away in all directions down toward the sea, scruffy short grass and thistles, crisscrossed by chest-high stone walls with, apparently, no rhyme or reason to their paths. The lighthouse itself sat boarded up and silent, a cylinder of grey stone, beside some kind of house of similar material that had long since begun the process of decay. What with the powerful wind sweeping over everything and, beside its wailing, the vast, empty, open-sky silence, there was a sort of forlorn sadness about the whole place.
I followed a path down to a circle of grey stone, across and over the walls that crossed the way, and talked with a Canadian couple going the same way. At the circle, I climbed up on the precariously loose rocks and looked back and the unsympathetic lighthouse, and across over the fields again, and decided it was time to get going.
Back at my bike, I found to my delight that all of the uphill had been taken care of. I cruised down the gently sloping road until I passed a crescent-shaped beach of white sand and turquoise water, which looked oddly out of place, like someone had transported an entire Caribbean beach to this gritty, tough, windswept island in Ireland. A short bit later, and I was at the Dún Aonghasa visitor's center and hiking up yet another path toward the sea.
This is the main attraction on the island: a semicircular stone-age fort on the edge of a 300-foot cliff over the ocean. There are no railings and no warning signs; the stony ground simply ends in a straight drop to the turbulent seas below. The fort itself, while I'm sure it's very historically significant, isn't much except for its incredible age. The really awe-inspiring bit is that spectacular cliff.
As I am my mother's daughter, I found a nice spot on the edge and dangled my feet over, much to the surprise of other visitors. The thing is, though, that if you're careful, you're no more likely to fall off a cliff than you are to fall off a sidewalk, and sitting on the side of the ledge isn't any more likely to pitch you into the sea than a stool is likely to spontaneously throw you to the floor. The key is to move slowly and deliberately, with no sudden movements to throw you off balance, and to have respect for the death that lurks around those edges. But there's no reason to panic.
I ate my lunch there on the edge of the cliff and looked out over the endless ocean until my fingers started to go numb from the wind. Then I got up carefully and made my way back to where I'd left my bike. I still had some time before I really needed to head back to the ferry, but I decided that given my physical condition and the distance involved, it would probably be wiser just to head straight back.
This turned out to be a very good idea. I had to pedal constantly most of the way back, and I was already tired. I rolled back into town with about 20 minutes to spare, which was just enough time to buy some Fanta at the Spar, return my bike, and stagger onto the ferry, where I promptly fell asleep for the entire journey back.
Back in Galway, I was powerwalking through the shopping area to try to get to the jewelry store I'd decided on, which was closing in just a few minutes. I made it in time and picked out the ring I wanted, which I'm now very happily wearing. I hope it'll last longer than the last one!
Dinner, a cappuccino, and a shower later, I finally crawled gratefully into bed.
The next morning, I again got up early (what is the deal?! Augh!) to catch the bus out of Galway. I arrived in Limerick (what a fantastic name for a city, eh?) with two hours of layover waiting for the bus to Killarney, so I spent it looking for a new book to read--I'm an addict, so sue me--and having a nice lunch in the sun. I got a bed in a nice hostel upon arriving in Killarney and set off again toward the national park that abuts the town, forgetting two things: 1) I'd biked like 4 or 5 miles the day before and 2) 6 miles is a long way to walk.
By the time I made it to the park, I was already tired, but I explored the ruined abbey, partially restored and partially dilapidated and nestled amid a small forest of cockeyed Celtic crosses. From there, I had the choice to turn around or go on, and that was how I ended up another mile down the road at Muckross House, a beautiful old manor house on the lake. I poked around a bit, but the day was ending and almost everyone had already gone. Leaving the park, I began the long trek back to town, stopping on the way at a pub for some water. It was close to 9pm when I finally made it back, but I stopped in a bookstore anyway. I can't help it.
On the 4th, I went on a bus tour to Dingle. Now, I'd planned on actually going to Dingle and staying there for the two nights preceding my flight, but it turned out that 1) Dingle's really far away and 2) my flight leaves at 9am, so I have to be close by. This is how I ended up in Killarney instead, which is near the airport, taking a bus day trip out to Dingle instead.
Turns out it was a really good thing I did. Although I'm not, in general, a huge fan of minibus tours, this one was more than worth it because of the absolutely spectacular scenery and a wonderful guide. We drove across rolling green pastures first to Inch Strand, another little stretch of soft sand and gentle waves, that looks into the long inlet between Kerry and Dingle peninsulas. I took off my shoes and padded down the beach, looking for shells and wave-smoothed stones, soaking up the sunlight for as long as possible before I had to dash back to the bus.
We dove through twee little Dingle Town, perched on the side of a wide harbor and packed with runners in a marathon around the peninsula. We drove on out to the very end of the peninsula and looked out towards the Blasket Islands and, over the edge of the glittering horizon, America. Circling back around, stopping now and then to take pictures of the fantastically vibrant emerald landscape against the glimmering sea, we came back to Dingle Town for a late lunch and a quick look around the town before we headed back to Killarney.
The hilarious part of all this was our guide, John. He laughed and joked with me every time we pulled over for pictures, and invited me out to a drink at a pub after we got back. I agreed, but first he let me borrow his bicycle to ride for a bit through the national park near Killarney. I cruised out to the old castle on the lakeshore and back, then headed out to find the pub.
It took me a few tries, but I eventually found the right one and found myself in an Irish pub, in Ireland, drinking cider and trying in vain to understand most of what was being said to me. When they spoke to me directly, I could usually understand what the denizens of the pub said, but when they spoke to each other, they might as well (and could have been) speaking Gaelic. After a couple pints of cider, John, a friend of his, and I went up to a 21-year-old's birthday party, then to a couple other pubs to hear different types of music, ending in a real Irish pub with real Irish music, drinking Bailey's Irish creme with an Irishman. I felt, as you can imagine, quite Irish.
I should mention at this point that John is old enough to be my father, and it was fun and relaxing to hang out with him as he showed me around the town. We got to talk about life and the future, and I returned to my hostel tired and happy.
I got up at (what felt like) the crack of dawn to take a taxi to the airport and, regretfully and reluctantly, got on the plane to leave the British Isles. I'd gladly move there and I didn't really want to leave, but duty called me across the Channel back to the Continent. With a mixture of sadness and excitement I watched the green hills of Ireland drop away below me and looked forward to the upcoming orientation.
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